It was a slow day. They had been listening to country music for two hours: Johnny Cash, Woody Guthrie, Jerry Jeff Walker, Kris Kristofferson, Jack Elliott, Roy Acuff and other singers they did-n’t know. La Grande Sauterelle, who was at the wheel, turned the knob in search of another station, and she came across a program devoted entirely to old Jimmie Rodgers songs. So they listened to “Train Whistle Blues” and the other old western songs to the end. When the program was over, Jack wanted to hear the news; he turned the dial from one end of the am band to the other, then he tried all the fm stations, but he found only country songs.

He switched off the radio.

“Know what?” he asked.

“What?” said La Grande Sauterelle.

“I’m in the mood for an old French song.”

A gentle smile formed on the girl’s lips.

The man repeated, “I miss the old French songs.”

“Do you?” she asked.

“Yes, I do. It just hit me.”

“And — did you have any particular song in mind?”

He didn’t reply immediately. He yawned and stretched like a cat. He had a number of songs in mind, and he was taking his time. He was in no hurry at all to make his selection. It was pleasant to let the old songs turn around in his head for a moment. They spun like records, and each one was performed by the singer he liked best for that particular song.

Finally he made his decision:

“The one I miss particularly is ‘Le Temps des cerises,’ sung by Yves Montand.”

“Yves Montand sings it very well,” the girl admitted. “Nana Mouskouri does it pretty well, too, but good old Yves Montand is hard to beat.”

“I think so, too,” said the man, grinning.

“And what if La Grande Sauterelle were to sing it?” asked the girl.

“I’d be curious to hear that,” he said.

She pretended to be turning on the radio and, mimicking the sprightly style of a variety show host, she announced that station CKRL-FM, 89.1 on the dial, was pleased to present a song dedicated to all those travellers on the endless roads to the west who were fed up with country music.

She cleared her throat and began.

Quand nous chanterons le temps des cerises
Et gais rossignols et merles moqueurs
Seront tous en fê-ê-te

Her voice wasn’t full and rich like Yves Montand’s, needless to say, nor was it sweet and melodious like Nana Mouskouri’s; it was a throaty voice, somewhat dry and husky. But she sang in tune and just fluidly enough to follow the melody very closely as it rose and fell. And it became jolly, rather bawdy even, when she came to the words:

Les belles auront la folie en tête
Et les amoureux du soleil au coeur

Then it grew more tender and melancholy for the second verse, which began: